The Stratford Murder by Mike Hollow (love books to read txt) 📕

to the idea of her husband dying and wants to go back to when they were together. Some people are like that, aren’t they? Especially when they get older. They always seem to think the old days were better. But you can’t live in the past, that’s what I say. My boyfriend’s always going on about the past, even though he’s young, like me. Always talking about dead people I’ve never heard of. He calls it history, but I think it’s just boring old stories. Politics, too.’

‘He sounds like a serious young man.’

‘Yes, well, he’s a bit too serious for my liking. I’m beginning to think when they were handing out a sense of humour he was at the back of the queue – or maybe not even in it at all. Sunday night, for instance. There was a bit in the newsreel about some ship in Belfast, and I said to him, “Have you heard the one about the Englishman, the Irishman and the Scotsman?” and all of a sudden he snapped at me, said he hadn’t, but he knew it was bound to end up that the Irishman was an idiot, and if we knew more about the awful things we’d done to Ireland we wouldn’t be so cocky with our jokes. He said we don’t belong there and we should get our troops out. It was quite an eye-opener. The way he flared up like that, you’d think I’d insulted his mother or something.’

‘Perhaps his mother’s Irish.’

‘I don’t think he’s got a mother – not alive, anyway. But he’s as English as you and me. He just seems to have this bee in his bonnet about politics and Ireland. But I thought that was all settled years ago – they’re not part of our country any more, are they, except for that bit at the top? Men get so het up about politics, don’t they? I don’t know why. Me, I say leave all that to the politicians – that’s what they’re for. I’m young, and I think life’s for living now. I don’t want to go grubbing round in the past. Perhaps I will when I’m old, like Audrey, but for now I reckon if I’ve survived another night and haven’t been bombed to pieces, I’ll have a good time today and hope to be alive tomorrow. I’m very disappointed with that Martin. He seemed so promising at first, but I’m not sure I’m going to bother seeing him again – not since last time. He didn’t even walk me home from the pictures – just nipped off with some flimsy excuse and didn’t come back. What kind of gentleman is that?’

‘I don’t think I can comment on that.’

‘Well, if ever I get married, I’m jolly well going to make sure I marry a gentleman. Someone like yourself – only younger, of course.’

Jago thought from her tone of voice that she was about to laugh, but she suddenly stopped and seemed plunged into some more sombre reflection.

‘Is everything all right?’ he said.

‘Yes, I’m fine. It’s just … Well, talking about getting married made me think. If I do, Joan won’t be there, will she? That makes me feel sad, and it’s reminded me of something else.’

‘Yes?’

‘When we were at the mortuary, with Joan, I didn’t look at her hands. She was all covered up, and I thought I probably wasn’t supposed to touch the sheet or anything. But I just wondered – did she have her rings on?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Well, I was down Manor Road yesterday, and I was passing by a pawn shop. I looked in the window and there was an engagement ring and a wedding ring in there that looked just like Joan’s. I mean, wedding rings are all much of a muchness, aren’t they, but the engagement ring was a bit unusual – it was a square emerald. It looked just like hers. I know she wasn’t rolling in money, but I wouldn’t have thought she’d have needed to pawn her rings.’

‘Could you tell me which pawnbroker’s it was?’

‘Yes, it was at the top end of Manor Road, near where it meets Stephen’s Road. I can’t remember the name, but it’s the only one in the street.’

‘Thank you, Miss Hayes. That will be all for now. We’ll leave you to get ready for work.’

‘You’re welcome. But let me know about those rings. If it turns out her Richard’s dead after all, they might come to me, yes?’

Jago said nothing, but doffed his hat to her as they left.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

‘That was interesting,’ said Cradock as the door shut behind them. ‘What she said about Cynthia Carlton, I mean – the gossip about her and Conway.’

‘You like a bit of gossip, do you, Peter?’ said Jago.

‘No, but it wasn’t the impression I got when we were talking to Cynthia. I thought she was a bit sniffy about him. And when he started talking about how he looked after his girls and how sensitive he was to their needs, I thought she was going to laugh out loud. I can’t quite see her being involved with him in that way.’

‘Not now, I agree, but perhaps in the past? She did say there’d been a little history between them, and I got the impression it didn’t have a happy ending.’

‘So is it worth following up?’

‘Oh, yes, definitely.’

Jago looked over his shoulder and saw a curtain twitch in the downstairs front window of the house they’d just left. He wondered whether it was Beryl, but he doubted whether she was allowed into the front room. Perhaps it was just Mrs Jenks the landlady keeping an eye on her gentlemen callers.

‘Come along. The Regal’s only round the corner, and if Cynthia’s the manager’s secretary I daresay she has to dance attendance upon him as soon as he gets to work.’

‘If not before,’ muttered Cradock.

‘Now, now,’ said Jago. ‘Judge not. It’s none of our business, unless someone’s breaking the law. But if any of this has a bearing